Firelight
by cattail prophetess
Summary: A weird little Ginny/Cho I wrote on a whim. I couldn't decide whether it was angst, humor, or pointless fluff.


Summary: A weird little Ginny/Cho I wrote on a whim. It's under 'Drama' because I couldn't decide whether it was humor, angst, or pointless fluff.  
Rating: PG-13, for no particular reason.  
Warning: This is slash. In this case, that means lesbianism- that is, a romantic and possibly sexual relationship between two females. Not your cup of French-vanilla-flavored hot chocolate? Guess what- you don't have to read it!   
Also, I wrote it between four and five in the morning after trying and failing to get this stupid log to catch fire and watched music videos at the same time, so it's bound to be a little weird. And I suppose the reference to burning is self-mutilation, so steer clear if you're upset by that.  
Disclaimer: Everyone is JKR's. As usual. Gog.   
Stupid Note: Um, I thought it would be cool if witches and wizards didn't usually use magic on fires. Oh, all right, I didn't. I only noticed my mistake when I was done. But you can /pretend/ I meant to do it. Also, Ginny probably shouldn't have used the word "electricity" because she hasn't /got/ any electricity. Too bad. Maybe she's better at that sort of thing than her father.  
And: I am young, okay? I'm thirteen. As a result of my young-ness, I have never been in a romantic relationship with anyone, and thus cannot write making-out scenes. This is why there are only two or three lines relating to this, and very general ones at that. Blame the people who didn't ask me out.  
  
  
//FIRELIGHT//  
  
  
I nearly bury my head in the flames; I've always liked the smell of them. My mother called me her fire-child when I was younger- it was, she said, as if I were addicted to the hearth, always crouched over the ashes and cinders, tending. And my hair only added to the illusion. Eventually, though, after my first year, it stopped being funny. That was when I would hold the matches upside down and let them burn my fingertips. That was when I stopped ever moving from the grate, even when they told me to. When I spent so much of my free time at school in the common room, crouched by the fire, and insisted on them even in summertime. My parents tried to keep me from doing it, but they couldn't. Fire kept me alive, you see. I lived for it as surely as I lived for the next sunrise.  
  
I'm over that now, or almost. It's faded away, little by little. The horror of the snakes and the madness begins to leave me, especially now that she helps me. I tell her things about that night in the Chamber that I never told anyone, and she holds me, rocks me as a sister rather than a lover. I notice that her hair is the color of coal, or of burnt wood, and to me this is beautiful. When I'm with her I don't need fire so much. But still, a moment or two of smoke, a moment of flame...   
  
When you've been unhappy as long as I was, and then suddenly seem content, your family is usually glad enough to try to keep you that way. I won't call it manipulation; it's just that, when I need to go out at night, I can always get the cloak from Ron. It's almost every night, but he doesn't seem to know that, or care. He asks if I need it, and I say yes. And then we smile self-consciously at one another, like strangers who share the same parents. Which, in some ways, is what we are. I am not inclined to ask how she sneaks out; it is possible she takes her chances, or perhaps prefects are allowed that.  
  
I feel guilty, sometimes, as her pain is much more raw than mine. How long has it been? I ask, and she tells me without hesitating: eight months. He died eight months ago. I'm sorry, I say. I apologize for not being able to comfort her as she comforts me. She claims I do, in a roundabout way, with my laugh and my eyes. I'm not so sure, really. She tells you things to make you feel better- she is that kind of person.  
  
The touch of her hand on my shoulder makes me start. She has oddly soft footsteps, and I think she likes to surprise me in this way. Perhaps she is younger than I am, really. But if she was I don't think she could be this wise, even in Ravenclaw.  
  
"Ah," she says, grinning. "Your other love. Going to leave me for the fire, Ginny, are you?"  
  
I don't think I could bear for anyone else to make this joke. I laugh. It does not sound like a helpful laugh, only a normal Weasley laugh.   
  
"Your brother getting suspicious?" she asks dutifully. She has told me, half-serious, that as the older one it is her responsibility to proect us, to keep people from finding out.  
  
I shrug. "I don't think so."  
  
"Good," she says, sitting down with me, next to the fireplace. "You really tend fires well, don't you?" She leans over and kisses me, quite softly. "Isn't there some goddess for that sort of thing? Greek? Hestia?"  
  
I tell her I'm no scholar. "I got three out of ten on my last Potions essay, you know. You can't expect me to be as brilliant as you are."  
  
She chuckles, quietly. I like the sound. "Of course not," she says. "You're a Gryffindor, and unscholarly by default. But this isn't Potions, and you know it."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
A sweet little mock sigh. "God, Ginny, you're silly."  
  
"It's only because I'm with you. You're... well, I can't remember what they're called. My father told me about them. Something Muggle teenagers smoke. Anyway, you're like that."  
  
She rolls her eyes heavenward. Except maybe I should just say up, because this feels more like heaven anyway. "Whatever you say, Ginny." Mock-sighing again, she reaches for me. I am electric with anticipation.  
  
And I cannot feel the flames so much anymore.  
  
  
Well, loves (and I mean that in an entirely platonic way), that was... interesting. But you were warned, correctomundo?  
  
Everyone: Correctomundo, Amanda.  
  
Very good. Now you can go review my fic. All flames will be given to Ginny. 


End file.
